The First Age

Armande felt irritation flare up. The condescension seemed to drip with her every word, flicks of acid spun out, wounding his pride.

How dare she....I need to practice killing beasts?

His eyes narrowed, blue fire of rage. His voice was drawn tight, the string of a bow, the readied blade. "I have been 'practicing killing beasts'"- he imbued the words with all the contempt he could- "since your mother was a child."

He was beyond angry. How dare she. He flowed to his feet in one movement, looking at her, daring her. In one motion his tunic was off and he proudly displayed himself. Scars of stab wounds and slashes and tears and still healing burns criss crossed his muscled shoulders and chest, his still taut stomach and torso and back. Some were faded while others fresh, and every shade in between. His right arm was still torn and scabbed and bruised, as was his shoulder where he had taken the brunt of Apollyon's blast, had been dragged across the rubble strewn ground.

Pride dripped from his lips. "These wounds were taken while your mother was in swaddling. I have killed dreyken in their lairs, stalked wolfkin in the woods. I have hunted rakshasa in packs and killed nests of rougarou who only desired to devour me alive. D'Jinn have not stopped me, nor have bainak. I have never been defeated!"

She asked about weapons? "I have hunted with weapons you cannot imagine. I boiled Apollyon and his godling alive from the inside out so that their eyes steamed and their blood roiled. I summoned an Ijiraq with ancient Atharim weapons and broke it to my will, forced it to serve me and hunt."

Pride was a fire burning inside him, boiling him alive. His words spilled from him like steam escaping from a heavy lid, pressure never relieving.

And for a moment, he saw himself as a hero of old, as the ancient Atharim had been, saw himself standing with them against the gods. He burned with pride, at the image.

He HAD killed Apollyon. That had happened. He. But they had been betrayed. The gods used their power somehow, to restore him. Or he was possessed by wefuke. Or something else. But he had done it!

And then something snapped and he saw himself as he must look in her eyes. Posturing. Prideful. Preening.

And Armande opened his mouth and laughter roared from deep within. He struggled to contain it even as his eyes lit up. He dropped to the cot, shoulders still shaking, and put his head in his hands, face red with shame. Between chuckles, he spoke softly.

"I am an old fool."

And smiling, he looked up to watch her, expecting to see contempt. It would be what he deserved.


Edited by Regus, Dec 30 2017, 02:46 PM.

Armande tore his robes and proudly displayed his scars. Valeriya turned her nose. A scar only meant a beast got too close. Scars were failures. Yet Armande proudly displayed his. That was why he failed to kill the angel of death. Because he had not learned the lesson of failure.

He was taller, stronger and more experienced than she. He thought to frighten her? A hiss grew in her belly like a cornered beast. Let him attack. He would see true ferocity then. Her muscles tensed. Her lip curled. She wished he would attack. She who was purified of sin. A queenly cannibal. The Eye of power. She would fight him off with tooth and nail. For all his years of fighting he hadn't learned.

She bared her teeth, stalked in front of him, gripped his hair in her hands and wrenched his face toward hers. "And how many gods have you killed Great Regus? Great slayer of beasts? How many gods? Were they babies? Weak and defenseless? Or were they beasts like your mighty apollyon?

One confrontation with this greatest beast and you tuck your tail between your legs, roll up your belly and give up? Maybe you did kill him. I don't know. But he's alive now. How is that possible unless he was resurrected. What necromancer summoned him back from the grave? For the dead do not return uncalled. Rasputin, the real God in the flesh survived poisoning, stabbing and drowning before he was killed. Some things are hard!"

Valeriya's green eyes flashed fire, so hot he could almost feel the heat emanating in waves. Her teeth were bared, stance ready and willing, head held with pride.

And then she was in front of him, her fingers grabbing his hair, the scratching of her sharp nails digging into his scalp, yanking his head up to hers.

The room changed at her touch. A mist came over his eyes as the Chong Rann took him. He was in the cave again, peering into darkness, had been waiting for his answer. Daring the One to show his face, daring him to explain Himself. Defiant. Unbent. The great Armande Nicodemus.

And he saw her green eyes in the darkness. No. She was in the cave. Her voice came from a distance, as if he had infinite time between each sentence, each word calling to mind his failures.

Or rather, his success. He saw clearly now. So very clearly. How his life had been planned from the start. He had been selected, chosen by someone. The Atharim probably. And each step had been planned, everything part of the grooming. Even the pain. Especially the pain. Gregorio's hanging body, orchestrated. Jova's final mission, to disappear. Perhaps not Lissandra. They could not have predicted...could they?

It did not matter. Every challenge, he had faced successfully. Every loss, every hurdle.

That was his defeat. That was why he failed. For too long, the Atharim cowered at his whim. They flinched when he spoke. He took defiance and challenge as disobedience and weakness. Punit's refusal to study the texts any longer had been a mortal sin, worthy of death. The Convocation and Father Stone's public execution. The Archangels.

He had believed in himself. No. He believed his Mythology. He was Armande Nicodemus, Regus of the Atharim, Vicar of Iscariot.

"And how many gods have you killed Great Regus? Great slayer of beasts? How many gods? Were they babies? Weak and defenseless? Or were they beasts like your mighty apollyon?"
The words cut him to the core.

The mighty Armande Nicodemus, slayer of mighty babies and of defenseless youths. He felt scorn for himself.

So proud, so arrogant.

Would he kill the prophesied Apollyon so easily? Would he destroy the greatest danger the world ever faced in just a moment?

This was a war, not a single battle.

The face in the shadow was hers, her words leaping out to his heart. "Some things are hard!"


And in the moment, he knew. She was the key.

The cave dissolved again and it was just her, in his face. And he smiled, a smile of life and death. Of joy and pain. Of elation and sorrow. She was his. He was hers.

His hands flashed up and grabbed her by the wrists hard, yanked down, heedless of any tearing of gripped hair, and he spun her so that her arms were yanked tight around her body, binding her against him. Her hair was in his face, the smell of the fresh shampoo intoxicating.

He bit her ear sharply and snarled, "Come at me then, Eye!" And he spun her free, ready for her attack.


Edited by Regus, Dec 30 2017, 05:02 PM.

((ooc - Regus modded with permission)).

She wriggled slick as cherufe scales from his grasp. On a step she spun, whipping the claws of her hands across his face. She hissed a warning, crouched low and flung. Her weight was half of his, but explosive and mighty. She slammed into his belly to knock him off balance. They fell tangled in each other's arms. Teeth gnashed. Valeriya might have sprouted ten arms and legs for all she thrashed and kicked until her knee pushed into the soft flesh of his throat. There she paused, waiting for retaliation, welcoming it.

((ooc - Valeriya modded with permission)).

She was a demon, her hands and feet a storm. Fresh scratches appeared down the side of his face and on his chest. Suddenly he was on his back and they were rolling around..

She felt hard and soft against him, even as she rained small fisted blows against ribs and stomach, gnarled her teeth. Part of him gloried in this goddess of life beneath him, above him, around him.

Her knee on his neck, pausing, eyes flashing. His hand snakes between her one leg to the one with the knee, yanking them together and she collapses on him, her chin sharply bounding against his cheek.

Rolling quickly as possible, he grabs her wrist, this great harpy he would tame, his ravishing gorgon he would be owned by. He squeezed, feeling the bones of her wrist protest, and in that moment, yanked her to him rolling her again, her back to him, he partially on top of her, her other arm pinned. He does not let up on the wrist, but he pauses...feeling his body against her, breathing into her neck, biting her yet again.

Knowing she will make him pay.

Her neck pinched and Valeriya growled. Armande didn't like what she had to say, and he thought to kill her over it? She had no intention of dying now. Not after reaching the Above. The sky called and the black path beckoned. He would not keep her from it!

She flailed. Her bones wriggled but her skeleton was pinned. She wasn't strong enough to ovepower him! For a moment, fear tickled her heart. But Armande came to a pause. No deathly blow smashed her head into mush. In fact, if she twisted just enough. There! She was able to roll to her back. His grip weakened just enough to let her roll.

Black brows furrowed low, her black hair was a tangle behind her head. She snarled, but tilted her chin up defiantly. She challenged the crystals of his eyes to speak truth. Who was he?

"So are you Regus or are you Armande?"

She never gives up. She never gives in. She never backs down. No matter the odds. No matter how often. The fires of the underground crucible have purified her, strengthened her.

Even now, even prone, she cannot help but be who she is.

Her green eyes challenge him, teeth bared, seeing past any distraction, straight to the root of the matter.

"So are you Regus or are you Armande?"


She hadn't been in his head. Yet she knew. Somehow, she knew.

He stared into her eyes in wonder. The room was silent save for their slight elevated breathing from their exertions.

And then his lips locked on hers. It was for only a moment but that moment felt like an eternity.

Peace and determination seemed to flow into him as he let go and rolled back onto his knees, palms out on his thighs.

"The Eye sees." He'd heard the Khylsty use it many times. A ritual. Now, finally, he understood. He said it with reverance.

He looked into her eyes, let her see the truth. "Regus is an idol. An empty lifeless idol. I name my sin. Idolatry. Pride. Arrogance. I worshipped what I thought I was. It was my god. I have sinned more than you can imagine. I was dead in my sins. That was why I failed. But now I am Awake."

But then he smiled at her, kindly. No. So much more. With appreciation. With respect. With affection.

"You fear nothing and no one. I want you as my partner. My confidant. My counselor. My advocate." He laughed at their tussle. His cheek burned from her scratches. "As my Adversary, to always challenge me."

He paused, drinking her in. His voice grew tender. "As my lover. As my mate. Not of a legend. Not of a title. Of just a man. Me. Armande Nicodemus. I have a job to do. We have a job. The war is not over. I want you by my side, always."

He thought he knew what she'd say. Hoped. And yet...the best thing about her was her unpredictability. She did what she did because she was who she was. Wild and free. And she had set him free from the chains of expectation and destiny.


Edited by Regus, Dec 31 2017, 09:28 PM.

Me me me. Armande still didn't see. Was it her destiny to be nothing more than his partner? His confident? His counselor. His advocate. His adversary. His lover. His mate. To help him win his war? To stand at his side?

Where was her crown? When would she be queen?

Regardless of her destiny, in the here and now she needed him. He was their savior, that was certain. He brought them up, even if it was Valeriya that began the exodus. He took them to shelter and brought magical potions and food. Yes, she owed him. She would not forget that debt.

Armande. Not Regus. Regus brought her Above, but Armande would take her to glory. She had to stay at his side. For now.

She would love him. She would nurture him and tend to his wounds. She would make sure he remembered who he was. That he would not forget his purpose, for through him, she would achieve hers.
"You have awoken, beloved." She sat up when he moved away.

She smiled fiendishly. "You'll take me to see everything. We will find the clearing. You will take your crown. Then we will slay your mighty Apollyon."

After that, they would rule together.

In a flash, it seemed, her emotion had changed. Gone was the fight. Gone the refusal to back down. Gone the energy that had driven this earth goddess to teach him humility. Quiet acceptance....except that did not fit Valeriya. She was passion embodied.

Instead, he was declared Awakened, like that. He did not see the fire he'd seen in the empty lot outside. He did not see the desire that turned to animal rage when Illarion has seperated them.

Her smile was fiendish, but her words carried venom, barbs hidden among sweet expressions of belief. Was there a twist in her words, there at the end? His imagination?

Something was wrong. He tried to think of what it was. It had been so very long, trying to parse meaning with another person. He had been Regus too long. Foolish, in retrospect. Even Martin had held his tongue. He spoke, not caring if others were unhappy. Ignoring the unspoken meaning in the nuance of a phrase or the set of a mouth. Others had read his mood, not the other way around.

I repent of my pride, but the habit is still with me.

The prideful him would have taken the words at face value. But Valeriya was different. He was attuned to her. He wanted to be worthy of her. He wanted all of her. Her whole heart. But he knew that meant one thing. He had to give her what he expected. Hold nothing back.

Conflict did not scare him. Indeed, he was realizing how powerful it was. Only in conflict could truth manifest itself.

If they were equals, it went both ways.

"Something is wrong. Why are you displeased?" He didn't know. He had thought he'd expressed to her what she meant to him. What more could there be?

But he wanted truth. He valued truth. Only in truth could there be true communication. More than that. "The truth will set you free."


Edited by Regus, Dec 31 2017, 11:53 PM.

Valeriya tilted her chin high. If he was angry with her judgment, then so be it. She could defend herself. The worst thing he could do was flat out leave her. She was as vulnerable as a baby in the Above without his guidance. So be it. If he left her alone, she would survive just like she had done her whole life.

"You're still destined to fail. You're thrown off the mantle of Regus, claiming to be only Armande, but now you're an Armande that demands all revolve around him. I will bind myself to you, but I will not belong to you. My purpose in life is bigger than serving you. Just as your purpose in life should be bigger than serving youself."


Valeriya brought her people, the Khylsty, to the Above because she alone knew that it was best for them. They followed her when they feared to. Now that they were here, she would see all the way to glory.

One brow lifted high. "What is it you really want in life, Armande? To be the one to kill your mighty apollyon or to be the one to save the world? To kill all the gods or to protect the people from their wrath? To win a war or to lead your people to what is best for them?"
Did he see the difference?